See You Next Tuesday

I have turned into a cunt.

Alright, some of you may argue that I’ve been a cunt for years, but I finally realized it for myself last night at The Editors show. And yes, I did attend a show last night even after I spent the entire weekend at Coachella. So what? When you come across an opportunity to see a band you’ve wanted to see live for a mere ninety-one cents, you go. It’s simple as that. And yes, I said ninety-one cents. It was a steal.

So anyway, there I am at Brick By Brick, beer in hand, tapping my toe to the music. I’m standing in back of the audience, next to the bar. There is little space between myself and this black shirted dude on my left who looks like he had one too many Jager shots. There is even littler space between myself and Woods – who is on my right. We’re basically shoulder to shoulder.

Now, I understand that at a show people must get through the crowd to get a closer look, get to the bathrooms, whatever. This had been the case all weekend at Coachella. Well, while I stood there watching The Editors sing their little hearts out, I began to become irate with the numerous inconsiderate concert-goers that had to pass through me to do their business. I wasn’t standing there very long before I snapped. I decided that I would not let anyone through unless they politely asked me to move, or by saying those two simple words – “excuse me”.

Needless to say, I didn’t make any friends last night. I pissed a handful of people off. Mostly females. No offense to females, but what the fuck is it? Because I’m a guy do I HAVE to move for you? Especially when you are grinding your tits into my arm? Please I like tits as much as the next guy, maybe even more so, but pushing your way through with your newly bought breasts between Woods and I ain’t going to get you far.

Here’s a tip, instead of being a total rude cumguzzler, why don’t you say “excuse me”. You will then witness a miracle – the Red Sea will part for you. Don’t try to argue with me because “your friend” has to get through, or because it’s my duty as a male to be chivalrous. If you are nice, I’ll be nice. Don’t expect me to do shit because you can toss your hair and bat your eyelashes. Newsflash – I can toss what hair I have and bat my eyelashes too, ho.

I guess I should just become a full time prick, but I couldn’t disgrace my parents like that. They went through years of training to make me a polite faggot. My momma and granmomma taught me right. Trust me. I open doors for ladies. Hell, I open doors for just about anyone really. It’s very rare that someone actually thanks me for doing so. But I still do it. I say “excuse me” as many times as I have to in order to work my way through a gaggle of people. I help old ladies cross the street. I say “thank you” when necessary. I hold the elevator door when I see someone coming towards it – well, except when I’m at work, and that evil witch woman from the 2nd floor tries to go back upstairs after her umpteenth smoke break.

Oh well, I guess I just have to come to terms that it’s easier for someone to be complete wanker than to be known as a gracious individual. At least at live shows anyway.